Untitled
by DJ Apocalypse
Summary: Muroi tries to kill himself, Ozaki intervenes. Sex and angst happen, not necessarily in that order. AU-ish. BL/yaoi, hentai/lemon. Should be rated M, but those never show in the category listings. No title yet, suggestions are entirely welcome.


A/N: This is version two of a fanfic that I am working on. They will ultimately share a lot in common, given that this is an iteration of it, but this one is the smutty sibling. That somehow is also all grimdark. Rolling along: I generally use Ozaki's family name throughout but Muroi's given because while it is written in third-person we are generally coming from Ozaki's point of view. I only switched to using 'Toshio' when Muroi started fully participating in the course of events.

Timeline? Takes place several years before Shiki, but after Ozaki has graduated from medical school. Ballpark it at as Ozaki and Muroi are about 26 or 27 years old. I don't know much about how long medical school in Japan takes, so kindly suspend your sense of realism when it comes to their ages. Ozaki is married, but Kyouko's already moved back in with her own family.

One other relevant note: I do use Japanese once in here. I'm not trying to be cool or anything foolish like that, the Japanese phrasing just worked better than the English would've in this case.

…and, yeah, there's a guy in here who loses a significant amount of blood, yet is then able to engage in sex. Uh… good genes?

And, finally: I dedicate this to Caraniel, for being my fellow MuroixOzaki loser-fan.

Untitled

He hadn't anticipated the day going as it had. It was a Saturday, and while the clinic was open, traffic was, as it tended to be on Saturdays, fairly light. It was a hot day in the foothills, and it seemed as if most had just decided to stay home and lie about. School was not in session; it was the dead of summer. With all the villagers doing less than usual, it provided less opportunities for need of a doctor. As the sun had finally rolled past its peak, Ozaki had sent a few of the nurses and administrators home. His mother had aired her general feelings of disapproval at this, but there'd been nothing she could do about it – his father had died the summer before, leaving Ozaki as the head doctor despite the fact that he was only fresh out of school and newly married. It was a strange state of being which he had only recently started becoming accustomed to.

So the day had been fairly sedate. He'd headed out to make a house call after sending a few of his staff home, leaving one of the older nurse's in charge in his stead. He had asked her to close up by 5 o'clock if he himself hadn't returned by then. He was feeling a bit leisurely himself, and so figured there was a definite possibility he wouldn't return until later in the evening. And so he hadn't felt at all guilty when he'd made the turn-off for the temple's long driveway after his house call; and, well, it never hurt to check in on the bedridden elder priest, his friend's father. After one stroke, there was always the chance for more, after all…

But it'd been a nasty surprise when he found that the ailing Muroi was not, in fact, the father this time. Despite his excuse that he intended to do a check-up on the elder, he nevertheless found himself circling round to his friend's room. He could see the screens pushed back before he'd even gotten close, and smiled slightly; he wouldn't have to go hunting around the grounds for Seishin, after all. But any smile he had at all had died the moment he darkened the doorway and found the younger priest sprawled on the floor, a dark liquid pooling on the tatami beneath him.

His doctor's bag, which he'd, admittedly, carried more out of show than anything, thudded against the planks of the outdoor walkway. He froze for a moment, and then picked it up quickly, and found himself moving in what now seemed to be a blur. It had been very mechanical – check pulse, check breathing, elevate arm, clean wound, tourniquet. He'd already known it was too late for stitches; the wound wasn't really bleeding any more, the blood in it already turning a darker, stickier hue. He'd held the other man up, and stopped, realizing that he was out of breath and his own heart was racing.

And now, somehow, he was here, in the clinic, tapping his pen repeatedly against a medical report form, frowning. He'd brought Seishin back to the clinic, and phoned the temple; he had, after all, more or less kidnapped their only son. He started with an apology because of that, as he hadn't bothered to stop and alert either of the elder Muroi as to what he was doing. But what was wrong with him? Well, he'd come by the temple and found him injured near the old church that no one used… and, yes, don't worry, he'd be fine, just needed to keep him overnight for observation, so sorry I didn't tell you when I found him and before I left, he needed treatment right away. But, yes, he's fine. Perfectly fine.

He'd worry about the stained tatami later.

The medical report was partially filled out. The clinic workers who had remained when he had gotten back with Seishin were mercifully busy with other things, and so he'd managed to spirit him in with little trouble beyond that of physically carrying him. He'd seemed frail, then, birdlike in his lightness. It had disturbed Ozaki, this added piece of information, for it dislodged wholly any remote possibility of an accident for some reason.

It also managed to induce a sense of guilt; how had he not noticed his friend becoming so thin? Or, apparently, that Seishin was so… miserable? His thoughts cast back to high school, the time before they both went off to different schools. Seishin's naïve insistence that neither of them held obligation to carry on their families' duties. On some level he had agreed, although he knew it didn't matter how he felt about the issue. Seishin had seemed less aware of this, however. He'd gone to an art school, which seemed to further the case for his being overly idealistic. What had he planned to do, after that? But he'd come back to Sotoba. And maybe he'd appeared to be a bit less energetic and optimistic than he had before college, but that was fairly natural, wasn't it? Everyone had to grow up in the end.

Ozaki sighed, placing the pen down next to the page. He'd filled in all the basic information – the day's date, the time, the patient's name, vitals, blood type, etcetera. But now he was struggling to come up with an appropriate thing to mark down as the problem which had brought the patient in. Sotoba was a tiny place, the whole area was a tiny place; he couldn't just write down that the son of the local Buddhist temple had tried to kill himself. It would cause too many problems… and Mr. and Mrs. Muroi would find out for sure if he did that. He thought of them, Mrs. Muroi in particular; they'd had enough to deal with in the past year, and they'd always been very kind to him. He couldn't bear to think of putting them through the ordeal of knowing the truth of the whole thing.

He rubbed a hand over his face, leaning back with a sigh. It had to be a plausible cause, one that made overnight observation make sense and also the bandaging of his arm. Maybe claim he suspected dehydration, that Seishin had fainted and caught his arm funny against something. Like a tree. Or a rock. Or something. No bumps on the head, so concussion was out. Dehydration. It sounded pretty good.

When he'd finished with the report, he went back up the stairs to the patient room he'd left Seishin in. The young priest had still been unconscious when he'd went to fill out the report; Ozaki had gone to the trouble of changing him into a hospital gown, and tucked him into the bed. He hadn't been sure of what to do with Seishin's clothes, a spatter of blood across one of the knees of the pants and a large stain on one side of the shirt from where he'd lain in his own blood. Ultimately he'd balled them up and shoved them to the bottom of his own hamper with the idea of burning them later on. He could pretty much have the run of the clinic without worrying about his mother, but he knew she'd get suspicious if she saw smoke from the incinerator at this hour.

He had opted to not use the restraints on the bed although he was worried about how strong Seishin's own determination was. But he just couldn't bring himself to tie his own friend's hands down. He was willing to trust in the blood-loss to do enough to prevent Seishin from moving about much, and he'd done a quick sweep of the room to ensure the absence of anything harmful. It wasn't a large room, so it hadn't taken long. He had bolted the window even though it wasn't very far off the ground. His stomach had churned slightly at this, for it seemed sickeningly absurd to have to do so. But he had no idea what frame of mind Seishin would be in once he awoke.

He hesitated slightly at the door to the patient's room. He wasn't sure what he would do is Seishin was awake. Where to start? But he quickly turned the doorknob, willing himself to do it quickly enough that he couldn't start mulling over the matter.

Inside, Seishin was awake, but he did not look up at the sound of the door. A pile of bloodied bandages was in a twist on the floor next to the nearside of the bed. Seishin was intently scratching at his own arm, scraping away the freshly-formed scab on his wrist, a desperate look on his face. He gave absolutely no sign of Ozaki's presence.

Ozaki crossed the floor in three large steps, and grabbed Seishin's bleeding arm, wrenching it away from his grabbing hand. Seishin's face was full of shock as he looked up at Ozaki, right before Ozaki backhanded him roughly, jerking him to one side, "What are you doing? I just bandaged this up!"

Seishin had dropped his head to the side Ozaki had smacked him to, his bangs obscuring his eyes as he looked down and twisted the sheets with his free hand. But he said nothing. His shoulder bones seemed to jut through the thin cloth of the hospital gown, and his left arm felt fragile in Ozaki's hand. It felt sticky, too; he'd grabbed it right over Seishin's self-inflicted wound. He tightened his grip, trying to elicit a reaction. But there was none, and the air began to grow thick in the silence.

Ozaki sighed, and let go of Seishin's arm. He turned away, and sat down on the edge of the bed. His fingers itched for a cigarette; "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hit you."

Seishin still didn't say anything, and he couldn't see if he'd looked up or anything. He thought about the medical supplies downstairs, nudging the discarded bandages with his toe. He doubted Seishin was bleeding as he had prior to treatment, but the wound would still need to be disinfected again.

He realized that his sudden flare of temper was due to his own anger with himself; how had he not noticed that there was something wrong with his childhood friend? Even if he'd been busy taking over for his father and getting used to his sudden responsibility, he felt remiss to have not at the very least realized that something about Seishin was off.

He turned, facing the other man, and cleared his throat again, "I'm sorry… it's just…" He reached out, bringing Seishin closer in an embrace, something he was sure he hadn't done since they were children, "I just… why?"

Seishin's eyes had widened at the sudden physical contact, and he felt himself tearing up. He lowered his head, burying his face in Toshio's shoulder. His glasses crushed into his eyes, the lenses spotting with his own tears. He swallowed roughly, painfully, and took a shaky breath. His arms remained at his sides; he did not return the embrace.

He took another breath, his face still lowered to Toshio's shoulder. He could feel Toshio's heart rattling, his upper chest pressed against his own.

As Seishin took note of this, Ozaki tightened his grip on the other man slightly, "I can… refer you to a specialist, one in the city, or one at the hospital, someone far enough away that no one has to know. I… didn't tell your parents. No one has to know… you don't need to tell me why…"

Seishin choked it out suddenly, "Suki… daisuki da!" He stiffened in Toshio's arms, even as he began to cry harder and ground his face into Toshio's shoulder.

Toshio felt like he'd had the wind knocked out of him. He opened his mouth to say something, but found he had nothing he could respond with. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and failed to think of anything in the intervening time. He was shocked. He had absolutely no notion as to what he could possibly say in response.

He let go of Seishin, and pulled back slightly, his hands now on his upper arms. Seishin wasn't looking at him, had resumed his examination of the bedsheets instead. Toshio took Seishin's head in his hands, and forced him to look up, look at Toshio himself. He knew he was about to do something he shouldn't, something wrong. But he'd already started to. And he knew that meant he was going to continue to.

He took a shaky breath, and slipped Seishin's spotted glasses off his face, placing them down on the small stand next to it. Seishin looked at him, his eyes watery, his face confused. Toshio placed his hands on either side of Seishin's head again, and leaned close, pausing briefly, taking another shaky breath. And then he kissed him.

It was a strange sensation. And, he realized with a jolt, it wasn't the first time he'd done this. He recalled the dim memory now, of long ago when they were both kids, when girls still had cooties but they'd begun to notice this odd thing their parents did sometimes when they thought no one was around, this kissing thing. And so they'd tried it themselves. But they'd been young enough then that they didn't understand even after trying.

Toshio pulled back, and wiped the tear tracks from Seishin's face with his thumbs before kissing him again. Seishin made a funny little noise in the back of his throat, and began to kiss him back, timidly and then more fully, his mouth opening as he brought his weight against Toshio.

Toshio dropped his hands from Seishin's face, finding his wrists instead, gripping them tightly. The left one felt sticky beneath his palm. He leaned further into Seishin, who began to give under the pressure, easing backwards, his back coming to rest against the mattress. Toshio stopped kissing him, and surveyed the sight beneath him, pinning Seishin down by his wrists, his arms out loosely at his sides. The other man was flushed, and his breathing sounded slightly labored, his hair slightly mussed. Toshio felt a strange thrill at the base of his spine, this image of helplessness beneath him, the nagging sense that what he was doing was wrong.

He kissed Seishin again, his hands loosening on Seishin's wrists. He noticed a growing hardness against his hip, Seishin not fully lined up flush beneath him. His own hands began to wander a bit, feeling the sharpness of Seishin's elbows, his hips, his ribs, the flimsiness of the hospital gown. He could feel himself growing hot, as well.

It was so easy to push the hospital gown aside, to pull it loose as Seishin's fingers tightened on his shoulders, Seishin's arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, closer, closer. He felt feverish as his hands slid across bared skin. He clawed at his own clothes, feeling cumbersome in his white doctor's coat. It was one more thing to remind him of his current moral failure; the doctor's coat, the doctor on his own patient, on his own patient in the clinic, on a hospital bed, pulling off his hospital gown. It was unclear if his lack of stethoscope fell on the good or bad side of the ledger.

He nipped lightly at Seishin's neck. Seishin was breathing heavily, and making small noises and sighs, but he wasn't saying anything. His hips bucked suddenly, an uncharacteristic movement, and Toshio bit hard at the crook of his neck, eliciting a yelp. Seishin pulled him into a kiss again.

His hands had shuddered, hesitated as he found then brushing up against Seishin's underwear. He pressed his palm against the lump there, as if to remind himself of its existence. He found it surprisingly easy to begin rubbing at it, cupping him slightly as he did so. And when he pushed the fabric away, he could feel the hard throb of blood beating through Seishin's member. Seishin bit suddenly at the sides of his mouth when he seized him, as if in surprise. Toshio could taste a tiny bit of blood as they continued to kiss, and as he started stroking his friend.

Seishin was pushing Toshio's own pants down now, one hand tugging as his other scrabbled with the buttons and zipper. They came down haphazardly, one side dipping, then the other, tangling around his knees. Toshio could feel Seishin's clumsy, coldish hand between his underwear and his skin, a not unpleasant sensation. He flashed briefly to Kyouko. But the last time they'd done anything like this had been rough, following an argument which then was followed by her disappearance the next day with the car. His mother had crowed about it; she'd always considered Kyouko wholly unsuitable. Kyouko had known what she was doing when they'd last shared a bed. In fact, she always had. Which was probably why his mother had disapproved in the first place.

Seishin, on the other hand, seemed unused to this sort of thing. But it'd been a while since he'd last shared his own bed with anyone but himself, so Toshio found himself enjoying the attention, especially as the chilliness began to recede. He continued to stroke and massage Seishin with his right hand, his left hand roaming once more, now pushing Seishin's gown from his chest to feel the flat planes beneath it. He avoided his ribs, not wishing to feel their sharpness again, not wanting to think about the implications their sharpness held.

He felt himself getting stiffer under Seishin's ministrations, but also felt them getting more haphazard. Seishin stopped kissing him, and let go, wrapping his arms around him again and gripping him tightly. Toshio's was face-to-face with the mattress, completely flat against the smaller man.

"Please." It was a hoarse plea, right by his ear. He understood it, and kissed the side of Seishin's face in reply as Seishin loosened his grip, taking note of the bruise that had formed there. He didn't know why, but his actions came easily, naturally, although he'd never done this before. He slipped his hand beneath Seishin, pushing the hospital gown up, away from his behind. He breathed in, and then pressed a finger into Seishin, who arched his back as he did so.

He pressed his finger further in, and moved it around a bit. A low moan emanated from the other man, and he drew his finger out, then added a second when he pushed into him again. Seishin pressed his face to Toshio's neck, whimpering. He was so tight. Toshio was either his first in a long time… or his first, period.

Toshio spread his two fingers, attempting to loosen the space between Seishin's flattish cheeks. If he didn't get him looser, he didn't know how he would ever be able to get into him fully. He wrapped his free hand around Seishin's penis, and slowly began to pump it. Seishin spread his legs at this, and seemed to loosen around Toshio's fingers. He could feel the warm wetness of his pre-cum, and rubbed at the tip, forcing more out.

He withdrew his fingers from Seishin, and eased back, finally throwing off his doctor's coat. The room had darkened as the sun slid toward the horizon, the long summer day finally fading away. Seishin's face was in shadow, his breathing labored. Toshio removed his shirt as well, but left his pants wrapped around his lower legs. If he had stood to take them off completely, the strange spell would be broken. He knew this too well.

He unknotted the sash of Seishin's hospital gown, which had remain cinched shut at the waist although the bottom was completely pushed back, and the top only remained clinging to his lower arms in an entirely unconvincing manner. He laid his hand briefly over Seishin's heart. It hammered rapidly. At the very least it told him that he was alive. The tatami seemed a million miles distant.

But he was also shaking, his muscles tensed. Toshio leaned back down, and placed gentle kisses across his face, "Shh…" He moved back again, and felt for his own penis, spreading the pre-cum all over it, and then added Seishin's as well. There was nothing else at hand he could use to lubricate with. He lifted Seishin slightly, adjusted him, and eased forward.

He was greeted with a gasp. And, despite his preparation, Seishin was tight, seeming to clamp down against him, the heat close to melting. He moved out a little bit, and then forward slowly again, easing himself in. It seemed like an eon, but he finally was fully inside, and he paused to listen to Seishin's hard breathing. He felt himself swell painfully at the sound, and began to move within his childhood friend, slowly rocking his hips, building up his speed slightly.

He leaned toward Seishin, and brought his arms around him, bringing him close. Seishin's arms held him tightly, with surprising strength. He laid his head against Toshio's shoulder, facing his neck, his eyes closed. He was practically in Toshio's lap now, his own member poking at Toshio's stomach. And he was moving himself on top of the doctor now, too.

It didn't take long for him to come. Toshio felt him shudder, heard the sharp intake of air, and then felt a hot liquid splash onto his skin. Seishin's arms loosened around him, and he shifted his head, now facing down into his shoulder, his eyes covered. Toshio moved awkwardly; he was still hard. But he drew out of the priest, settling him back down on the mattress.

What happened next would strike him later as something that was perhaps indicative of other things. Toshio found himself being pushed back now, insistently laid flat upon the mattress. It felt strange to see Seishin looming above him. He had a funny look on his face, but there was little time for Toshio to think, as he quickly realized what Seishin intended to do.

His breath caught quickly in his throat as Seishin ducked between his legs and began to lick at him. He intended to finish him off, a gesture which disturbingly enough reminded him of how his friend had always been – despite all his talk about not needing to oblige his family when he was a teenager, Seishin had always teetered somewhere between overly selfless and extremely generous.

Toshio could feel Seishin gagging slightly as he attempted to take his full length in. He started to reach down to push him away, to tell him he didn't have to do this, but his strength died away with a swirl of a tongue against his sensitive skin. He thrusted instinctively, although he had been trying to prevent himself from doing so, and Seishin made a muffled sound like a trapped cough. Toshio looked down to see his head bobbing up and down as Seishin suckled at him. He felt light-headed.

It was true, though, what they said about the psychological aspect of sex and arousal. He came at the sight of Seishin like that, between his legs, subservient, his soft hair brushing against his inner thighs. He sat up abruptly at the sound of Seishin coughing, and grabbed a corner of the sheet, pressing it to his mouth, "Just spit it out. Sorry." He felt embarrassed; he should've warned him. But he hadn't had any time.

Seishin dropped the sheet, having spat whatever was left in his mouth into it. He looked at Toshio, but said nothing. Daylight had disappeared completely, and Toshio could only see Seishin's face dimly, his skin pale even in the lack of illumination, the circles under his eyes stark in the shadows.

They lay together in the night, but Toshio's poor apology was the last thing that was said between them. When he awoke he found the bed empty, some blood and semen stains as the only thing left to attest to Seishin's presence the evening before. He touched lightly, guiltily at one of the blood stains, one that he knew couldn't have come from the priest's arm. He felt cramped from sleeping so close to him and from then being abandoned to the early morning chill. The season was getting along; the nights were no longer so warm as to sleep with the windows open and the sheets tossed back. Outside, the night songs of the insects were fading away. He wondered if his mother had noted his absence yet.

He swiftly tore the sheets from the bed after standing, balled them up and threw them by the window as he straightened his own clothing and shook the dirt from his white coat. He glanced quickly into the mirror on the wall, and ran a hand through his hair to make it look more presentable. He picked up the sheets, and left the room.

Downstairs a note was tacked to the glass of the reception desk. An apology for using the phone, for leaving him without waking – but, well, he'd looked very peaceful, and he did work very hard, so… Seishin had gotten one of the temple workers to drive him back. Ozaki frowned – wearing what? The clothes were still waiting for the incinerator…

He balled the note up, threw it out without a thought. He went outside, his hand already digging in his pocket for his lighter and cigarettes. He lit both the cigarette and incinerator with the same flame, and stuffed the damaged sheets inside, his mother and her curiosity be damned. On the gazebo he smoked one, two, three cigarettes, then another four. There was something deeply comical about it to him, but he could conjure no laughs. He'd done something wrong. Something deeply wrong. Even if he burned the evidence, he couldn't make that fact itself go away.

Several days later, he found himself confronted with just how wrong he had been. Mrs. Muroi stood by him, biting a handkerchief, her eyes wavering, as the good doctor sewed up the young priest's arm. He'd done a better job this time – had taken the trouble to soak his arm in the hot bath first, then re-submerged it so as to not make much of a mess. Ozaki didn't bother asking about the tatami.

Seishin's eyes were blank and flat. He seemed to take in nothing of what was happening around him. Ozaki was angry. He yanked roughly at the needle. He was angry at Seishin – for doing this to his mother, for being too stupid to figure out that it hadn't worked the first time, for not letting his own friend know when something was wrong. But he was also angry with himself. He steadied his hands; he didn't need to take this out on Seishin, catatonic or not. He could've called. Or stopped by. Or something.

Or he could've avoided making everything worse altogether in the first place.

He finished the stitching, and snipped the thread neatly with a small pair of medical scissors, their little rounded blades glistening obscenely in the sunshine that was streaming through the open door. He placed gauze bandaging over the wound, although it didn't really need it. But if it slowed him down next time…

Mrs. Muroi stepped forward, and placed a hand on her son's shoulder, her handkerchief crunched in her other hand. Her smile was gentle and brittle, "Could you please go sit in with your father? He seemed a bit unsettled this morning, I'd feel better if someone were keeping an eye on him. You can tell him I'll bring back some tea soon. I'll bring you some as well." She squeezed his shoulder, her smile somehow fixed in place. Seishin nodded distantly, and stood. He quietly made his way across the room, not looking at either of the others, and slid the door back, turning into the hall. The door whooshed softly behind him.

Mrs. Muroi had bit her lip as she'd watched him go, and now turned to the doctor, reaffixing the fragile smile, "I'm sorry, I should have gotten tea for you as well, doctor. But I wasn't really thinking much about that…" She sighed and sat down across from him, "I know if I tell him to look after his father, it'll be… well, nothing will happen. He's a good young man. He wouldn't want to leave his father alone if his father shouldn't be…"

They spoke then, and it was odd; they talked about Seishin, and Ozaki couldn't fully banish a sense that he was betraying the other man by discussing such things with his mother. He was used to talking to the older priest and his wife, but never like this, just about more trivial things, the sorts of things which were required by polite conversation – the state of the clinic, what his future plans were, how his parents were doing, the weather… the sort of conversations one had with their friend's parents.

But now they discussed Seishin… Seishin and his mental health. Or lack thereof. Ozaki offered to give a referral to the hospital or maybe one of the psychiatrists in one of the nearby cities. He calmly told her that Seishin's arm would scar, and admitted that his stay in the clinic overnight had been after his first try. He couldn't bring himself to tell her about his feeble attempt in the clinic, if the desperate clawing could be called that. He was thanked and dismissed. He looked back at the house before getting back in his car, just as Mrs. Muroi turned back inside. He wondered if now she would cry freely behind that shuttered door.

The next day he dropped off the reference, and performed a check-up on the elder priest to ensure that his health hadn't been affected by the recent events. And it wasn't very long before he heard the villagers gossiping – the young priest had gone away! Very strange, wasn't it, what with the old priest lain up in bed? But the poor kid, seemed he was having some difficulties with health… And apparently his father had decided he still had a lot to learn before he could be a real head priest. It made sense, then, didn't it? The old priest couldn't really teach him everything from bed, after all. In the meantime the village would just have to make due with the other temple workers… and, well, if someone did happen to pass away, there was always that Shinto temple through the mountains' pass…

Toshio felt himself grow older as time passed, his wife moved in and out again, his clinic workers changed. He smoked more than ever, and he could feel it turning his own throat to paper. Two years passed before he saw Seishin again. He felt awkward upon their reunion, having sent no letters, made no phone calls. But Seishin beamed at him, looking crisp in his temple robes, outlined darkly against the greened hills. For his own part, he'd snuffed out his cigarette, and stood up from the gazebo seating. And then faltered, let Seishin take the initiative in rekindling their friendship. He bubbled with anecdotes about the temple in Tokyo he'd worked at, how different it was from Sotoba, how shockingly full of people the city was. He didn't mention what had led to him going there in the first place, and his sleeve hung over where Toshio was sure the scar should've been. And he didn't mention what had happened between them in the patient's room that distant Saturday.

No, they never discussed it at all.


End file.
